She was beautiful, unbelievable, dark brown skin and long, long, flowing back hair. Her every move wafted the sweetness of jasmine flowers. She wore long, flowing, silk skirts and blouse, all hand-dyed in brilliant colors. They swirled at her slightest turn, dancing with her hair. Her eyes were a deep brown, and when she fixed them onto you, she called you, silently, into some ancient and wondrous place.
–Jonathon Oliver: weary, desperate, and half-mad defender of Humanity.
As an avatar of the Elder god Isis, Jasmine occasionally appears to investigators of the Cthulhu Mythos and provides them a small degree of support and comfort.
All that Danforth has ever hinted is that the final horror was a mirage. It was not, he declares, anything connected with the cubes and caves of those echoing, vaporous, wormily-honeycombed mountains of madness which we crossed; but a single fantastic, demoniac glimpse, among the churning zenith-clouds, of what lay back of those other violet westward mountains which the Old Ones had shunned and feared.
– HP Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness
Other Names: The Source, the Primal White Jelly, Ur-Shoggoth, God of the Shoggoths, the great gray goo.
If the Original, the Eternal, the Undying has a true name, it is obscured behind vague titles. Few tomes acknowledge the existence of the deity. Those that do only hint at its nature.
Normally, I have mixed feelings when it comes to anthologies. It’s not that I don’t like them, my problem is quite the opposite. I love them, but once I get to the point in an anthology story where I want it continue divulging the secrets it’s only just now begun to show me is when the story ends and we shift gears into an entirely different story.
I feared that would happen with The Gods of H.P. Lovecraft, but I wanted to give it a try anyway because I’m a huge fan of Donald Tyson’s Necronomicon books and knew that he had written the descriptors of the gods between each of the individual stories.
I was pleasantly surprised to find every story in this anthology pleasant to some degree. I still suffered, especially at the end of tales such as A Dying of the Light by Rachel Caine.